


Of Illness and Comfort

by caitlinnlouwho



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Barricade Day, Enjolras is an Idiot, Fainting, Fluffy, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Modern AU, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-06
Updated: 2014-06-06
Packaged: 2018-02-03 17:22:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1752701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caitlinnlouwho/pseuds/caitlinnlouwho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Enjolras neglects to take care of himself and his friends take matters into their own hands. For Barricade Day 2014.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Illness and Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic for this fandom and I am so excited! Enjoy and let me know what you think! Note: Chapter 1 here is actually two separate bits sewn together-- read on to find out what will happen!

Enjolras steps into the café, ruefully unwinding his red scarf from his neck. It's so cold, he thinks, and he’d rather keep it on, but god forbid he do so without his eagle-eyed comrades noticing and worrying. So off it goes, along with his jacket, and he attempts to mask his shivers as he makes his way to the group. He begins to pass out the pamphlets he’d spent a sleepless night’s effort on, dragging his feet from table to table and wishing he were asleep instead. He kicks himself mentally, biting his lip and chastising himself for slacking off in his dedication to the cause. 

Combeferre eyes him owlishly, face asking silently what Enjolras did not want to hear.

“I'm absolutely sure that I'm fine, Combeferre,” he says tiredly. “The weather is changing, you know as well as I do that it always manages to depress me.” He decides that omitting the chills and dizziness from his lie would be best in the long run, and fixes his friend with a confident smile. 

Combeferre shrugs, not entirely believing his friend, and settles into his chair as Enjolras takes his normal speaking position atop the long table in the center of the café. He quickly falls into the usual note-taking stupor, eyes glued to his tablet as his cause’s fearless leader speaks of the future (albeit with a stutter and a shake that Combeferre doesn't notice). He's only roused from his work after a resounding crash pierces the air, followed by a colorful exclamation from Courfeyrac as plates and coffee cups go flying.

“I could use some help,” Courfeyrac groans, clutching Enjolras’ leg as the blond dangles precariously off the table. He'd borne the brunt of Enjolras’ fall, but hadn’t managed to keep the ailing student's head from smacking against the wooden top of the table. Combeferre and Grantaire are there in an instant, settling Enjolras onto the couch and stuffing a pillow under his head while Courfeyrac dives under the table to gather the remains of his crushed pastry. Grantaire props Enjolras’ feet up onto his own knees, popping open the flask he keeps in his coat pocket and reaching for Courfeyrac's pastry plate. 

“He’s such a shit,” Grantaire mumbles through a mouthful of pain au chocolat. "Who would have guessed that a virus would be the sunlight that melted Icarus' wings?" Feuilly and Jehan snicker at the drunkard from their perch on top of the couch. 

“I knew he was lying,” mutters Combeferre, tone as clipped as an annoyed parent’s. “He never takes care of himself.” From the corner, Joly groans as Bossuet holds his hand out expectantly, and shoves two bank notes at his boyfriend. 

Courfeyrac gives him a reassuring, devilish smile. “I’m sure he’ll be fine, we can just take him home and lock his bedroom door.” The two roommates had had ample experience with this; the third was as terrible as a toddler when sick or injured. If they were lucky, they could manage to get through Enjolras' recuperation without stationing Grantaire at his bedside to wrestle him into submission as they usually did. 

“I don’t think we’ll need to,” Combeferre says, carefully feeling around the blond’s head. “With a lump this big, I doubt he’ll be fit to run away anytime soon.” 

“Speak of the devil,” Feuilly sayes, pointing to the end of the couch. Enjolras moans, fingertips gingerly pressing his temples. 

“What—“ Combeferre cuts him off, feeling his forehead. 

“You’re exhausted, you’re sick, you lied to us about it, and you passed out on Courfeyrac. Plus you managed to give yourself a concussion on the way down.” 

“I—I thought I would be fine.” 

“Of course you did, you stupid workaholic,” Courfeyrac says fondly, snatching the pastry plate away from Grantaire. “We’re taking you home and there won’t be any more meetings until you’re well again.” 

“Courfeyrac, we have a rally in four days. We cannot afford to lose time.” In his fever-fogged mind, Enjolras knew full well that nothing would be able to stop him from attending that rally. His group has everything to prove and everything to lose. How could they succeed if he was unable to lead properly? He could not fail. 

“And you’re pale as a ghost with a nice scone-sized lump on your head. I won’t deny that we need you here, but we need you well,” Combeferre says, using that pedantic tone of voice that Enjolras normally relegates to insufferable authority figures. Including doctors. He groans again and shuts his eyes, passing a trembling hand over his face as the world spins uncomfortably around him. He decides that it would be best to placate his friends for now, and then devise an escape plan once the blood stops pounding in his damn skull. 

“Fine.” 

“Let’s get you home,” Combeferre says triumphantly, helping a very pouty Enjolras to his feet.

The three eventually make it back to their apartment, after fending off a tipsy Grantaire and a lovesick Marius desperate to see their pretty downstairs neighbor. The two grunt as they deposit Enjolras on the couch, having dragged him nearly the entire way after he slumped against a store window in a dead faint. 

“‘Ferre,” Enjolras mumbles, curled on his side into the cushions. “Why’s my head hurt?” 

“Bed, Enj,” Courfeyrac says guiltily, and hauls him into his room. He grabs a set of pajamas from the dresser and hands them to Enjolras, shooing him into the bathroom to change. He helpfully sweeps the remnants of pamphlets and plans off the bed, stuffing them into the messenger bag hanging from the doorknob. “And take some Tylenol,” he says, shoving a bottle of medicine into the pale hand that peeks through the cracked door.

“Courf, ask him what type of tea he wants,” Combeferre shouts from the other room.

“Don’t care,” Enjolras mumbles, wobbling into the room and falling bonelessly onto his bed. Courfeyrac’s eyes narrow; for Enjolras to express such a lack of interest in his tea means that something is seriously wrong with him. After dropping a blanket onto his sick friend, he all but tackles Combeferre in the kitchen, eyes widened and creased with worry. “Will he be all right?” 

“I think so,” Combeferre says, finishing the mugs of tea he’d begun to make. “It looks like an extremely vicious cold, but nothing he can’t handle if he stays in his damn bed—“ Combeferre breaks off, clambering off his bar stool and striding towards the figure in the doorway. 

Enjolras had staggered into the living room, wrapped in a quilt and searching for a place to throw up. “I don’t feel good, ‘Ferre,” he whines, letting the elder guide him back to the couch. 

“Of course you don’t. You’re lucky you didn’t turn this into pneumonia. How many times do we tell you to take better care of yourself?” 

Enjolras, looking appropriately cowed, picks that moment to throw up, and Courfeyrac settles himself next to his friend, rubbing comforting circles into his shaking, burning hot back. 

“You know we aren’t mad, Enj. We just wish you’d take a break once in a while before your body takes it for you.” 

“’m sorry, Courf,” the blond mumbles, words slurred and head lolling on Courfeyrac’s shoulder. “But ‘m goin’ to th’rally.” 

“Like hell you are,” Combeferre snorts. “Do we need to call Grantaire again?” 

Enjolras just moans. 

A small knock at their door reveals Cosette, bearing containers of soup. Since she’d moved into their building two months ago, she’d taken a liking to the three boys upstairs and often made sure they were taking good care of themselves. Of course, she was an excellent cook and the three protectively and gratefully thought of her as a sister. 

“I heard he wasn’t feeling well, poor thing, so I brought up some soup for him,” she says softly, tiptoeing into their living room. 

“Marius?”

Cosette blushes a fierce shade of pink, curls bouncing as she nods. “Who else, ‘Ferre?” she says, making her way to the couch and planting a kiss on Enjolras’ forehead. “Feel better, frère.” The exhaustion and pain meds had caught up with Enjolras, and he lay half-slumped, half-curled around Courfeyrac’s torso, eyes shut. 

“I’ll come back later to see how you’re all doing. If you need anything, chers, you know where to find me,” Cosette smiles, and sneaks back across the room and out the door.


End file.
